


Calenhad's Heir

by astraria



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age - Freeform, F/M, One Shot, Short, dragon age origins - Freeform, for the feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6196078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astraria/pseuds/astraria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Alistair reveals his true parentage, his Dalish Warden companion has doubts about their budding relationship. Alistair does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calenhad's Heir

At camp that night, Alistair knocked on my tent. Except he couldn’t really knock because it’s a damn tent, so he said “Knock knock?” in that adorably irritating way of his and I could no longer ignore him. I’d heard him pacing outside for near half an hour, but I didn’t want to talk. I poured over maps and scraps of paper and prayed to the Creators that he would go away. But he didn’t. When he finally stopped pacing he stood outside my tent and like an ass said, “Knock knock.” I could’ve killed him, if I hadn’t just learned he was likely heir to all of Ferelden.

 

I heaved a sigh and stood up, throwing my tent flap and doing my best not to snarl, “What?” What did I care for human kings? They were not mine. Or they weren’t, before I was conscripted. Were they now? Where did Gray Wardens stand in the realm of men? And me, an elf, falling for their fucking king. Or heir, or whatever he was. Alistair skirted by me to enter my tent, and as he did so I caught a glimpse of Zevran across the camp. He appeared casual. He always did, the calm bastard. But his eyes flickered up and I knew he was watching. I was falling for him, too, but was it any better to love an assassin than it was to love a king?

 

I had loved Tamlen too. And Merrill. Where had that got me. Tamlen was dead and Merrill was long gone with the clan. Me, I was stuck in a tent on the road to find some urn sacred to these clumsy shems. A sacred urn for Alistair’s  _ uncle  _ who is Alistair’s  _ uncle  _ because  _ Alistair  _ is heir to the bleeding _kingdom_.

 

Alistair, in front of me, looked like he was ready to enter a battle. So long as he was allowed to run once he saw the enemy. I knew I wasn’t helping. It had taken all his strength to tell me his parentage, and I had learnt only enough of his world to know that I would never fit in it. Not as his lover. Never as his queen. It was best to end it now. Before it had really begun. What were a few flirtatious glances? Or, late night talks? What was comfort and kindness in the midst of war? I wasn't doing much good trying to convince myself. I was just making myself angry. And Alistair terrified. I may be small but I had a glare that had pinned tougher men than he better than any sword. And right now he looked like he'd have preferred the sword.  


 

I softened in the face of his hesitation.

 

“Alistair,” I said, and knew my softness was a mistake, a chink in my armor that he dove right through, because he said  


 

“Wait,” and put his hand upon my cheek, the hard leather of his gauntlet cold and gritty and yet electric. He was mere inches from me. In all our conversations, weeks of travel, he had never been so close, and I could smell his campfire scent, herbs and earth in a warm mix that made me feel lightheaded. I looked up at him. He was ever so tall, to my diminutive elven height. I tried to shake my head, but he bent and his lips brushed mine and sparks danced along my veins,

 

“Alistair,” I tried again, looking away, “We can’t do this.”

 

His other hand was on my hip, my hands were on his arms, I think I was trying to hold him away but then he whispered in my ear, “Please,” and I do not know what he was asking, precisely. That I forget what he had told me, or that I admit my feelings, or that I let us have this night? I do not know what he plead for, but I gave way before his warm whisper, before his searching hands, before his shadowed eyes. He kissed me again and I slipped my arms to his sides, feeling the electricity between us jump from his lips to mine, feeling the heat of his hands as they kneaded my back, my thighs. There was hunger between us and all I wanted was to give in, to feel his hands all over me, to forget, but I couldn’t.

 

“Alistair,” I tried one more time, breathless, my lips so close to his neck, and though he did not move away he paused, “Tomorrow, we must both remember who you are.”

 

“And tonight?” He asked, his forehead resting against my shoulder, stooped so he could bend into me.

 

“Tonight…” I sighed, “…but the morning will come anyway.”

 

His breath was hot against my neck, “I don’t want to be king. And I didn’t want to tell you because… because I knew you would take it this way.”

 

“Because you know it could prove true.” Now, he straightened himself up. At my words, he appeared as though an unkind lightning had struck him.

 

“And if it does?” He asks.

 

“Then a dalish lover would be a thing of shame.” I say, and I hate myself for it. I hate it because it is what his people believe and I am bending to their hate. I hate it because I see his eyes harden, in the way of his kind.

 

But he surprises me when he responds, his eyes still hard, “Love is never shameful.” And my breath catches because though I came close he is the one who said the word. I lift my eyes to him then, and I think he sees my shock, in the slackness of my jaw and the widening of my eyes.

 

“You…?” I swallow, trying to clear my throat so I can say the words, or some words. He looks surprised too. I do not know if it is because of his own words or my reaction, but a blush begins to creep up his neck.

 

“I don’t care who I am tomorrow.” He says, in a rush, as though he’s afraid he won’t have time to say all the words he has in him, “Whatever other changes are wrought, I know how I feel for you, and I’d carry you through with me whatever the cost.”

 

My breath catches in my throat, and he carries on before I can respond, “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, but I want you by my side, and I want you there for every day afterward.” He places his hands on my waist, tentative, hopeful, “You’ve made me braver, stronger, than I ever thought I could be. Whatever comes next…”

 

“Stop.” I say. And I think he is going to take his hands off me so I grab them, and I hold them on my sides because right now his touch is all that is anchoring me to the ground. “Just stop talking.” I say, harsh, and I see his lips twitch in a smile, before he straightens his face and watches me, waiting.

 

“I can carry my damn self through whatever comes next.” I hold his hands tighter,

 

He laughs, low and quiet, “I know,” he says,

 

“Shut up.” I say. He does, though that irritating smile still plays on his lips. “Shut up, or I’ll deck you, and that’s not what I want to do right now.”

 

His hands tighten on my waist, “What do you want to do?”

 

I tilt my head up and for the first time all day I cannot suppress a smile, though I try valiantly, with one eyebrow cocked, as I tease, “I want you to show me what it is I’ll have all these coming nights, then.” My eyes are a challenge that he rises to meet, his lips on mine, his skin, cold on this night still burns against mine, as we remove his armor, piece by damned difficult piece, until all that is left between us is my own, light leather elven garb. It comes off quickly, and then there is nothing, and his hands speak to my thighs of great need, his lips to my breasts, his thighs below mine, and we tremble with the ferocity of the feelings we tried -- or, I tried -- to suppress. 

  
Afterwards he holds me, and he asks some question, and I respond, impishly, that we have many more nights to practice and perfect our technique. He laughs and asks me what I liked, and we begin again. 


End file.
